A Little Bit Sinful

Epilogue

Chapter 1

Chaswick Manor, Kent, England, early spring, 1819

Everyone, please gather closer.

The minister’s voice, deep and solemn, echoed among the well-dressed group, shattering the stillness. Jaw clenched, eyes dry, Sebastian Dodd, Viscount Benton, took a step forward, swaying slightly as the bright sunshine momentarily blinded him. Following his lead, the sparse crowd of mourners standing behind him also moved, yet kept a respectful distance.

How very wrong it all feels, Sebastian thought, shifting his stance to block the sun’s rays from his eyes. The weather should be chilly and damp and gray, with raindrops pelting their faces, the ground beneath their feet soaked and muddy. Instead there was warmth and sunshine, with a sky as blue as a robin’s egg, solid, thick green grass, and a profusion of exuberant spring wildflowers.

Though he stood alone, Sebastian was mindful of the people gathered behind him. A few distant relatives, whom he wished had not bothered to make the journey, and an even smaller group of friends, whose presence made him feel a profound sense of gratitude.

The Countess of Marchdale was a noble woman, possessing a strong character and a charitable heart. She was a pillar of the community, a shining example of a fine and genteel female, the minister proclaimed. Heaven will most assuredly welcome this good lady with open arms.

Sebastian could not hold back his smile. His grandmother had been a feisty, opinionated woman who had ruffled more than her share of feathers, especially in the later years of her life. She would have laughed out loud upon hearing the minister’s words, and then rapped his knuckles sharply before scolding him for exaggerating. The countess was never one to suffer false praise. Even at her own funeral.

As for her heavenly ascent, well, if such a place did exist, the countess’s admittance was hardly guaranteed. She had not led an angelic life, nor a particularly pious one. She had enjoyed fully the excesses and privileges of her rank and wealth as well as—Sebastian always suspected—the delights of the flesh. After all, she had buried three husbands, each younger than her.

If, by some divine miracle, his grandmother did pass through the gates of St. Peter, Sebastian was confident that within minutes of arriving she would be expressing her opinion on how things could be improved in that world. And this one, too.

Let us pray, the minister commanded.

Behind him, a soft chorus of voices blended together. The familiar words sprang from Sebas-tian’s lips as he joined in, marveling at the power of memory, for it had been a very long time since he had spoken any words of prayer. At the conclusion, Sebastian lifted his bowed head and for the first time looked into the deep, dark hole that had been dug in the ground.

A shudder rippled through him. It seemed impossible to imagine his grandmother spending eternity in that darkness, cut off from everything she had once loved.

At the minister’s command, four burly workmen took up their positions and began lowering the casket. Farewell. Sebastian voiced his final good-bye silently, yet the moment the thought solidified, a wave of sorrow rose from deep within his chest, catching him unawares. He had never been a man who allowed sincere emotions to easily flow. The tragedies of his life had taught him that true feelings were meant to be private. It was best to hold them close and keep them hidden.

The countess’s death had not been unexpected. She was an elderly woman whose normally robust health had been compromised by a persistent winter illness. The day before she died she had told him that she was weary of feeling unwell and melancholy over the loss of her active, buoyant lifestyle. She confessed she was at last ready to leave this earth and begin her final adventure.

Sebastian took a deep breath. She might have been ready to depart, but he wasn’t prepared to see her go. She had pestered and plagued him all of his adult life, attempting to dictate everything from the meals he ate to the clothes he wore, from the items on which he spent his money to the company he kept. She was quick to find fault and even quicker to express her displeasure.

But the countess had also protected her only grandchild with a maternal tenacity that had no equal. Her loyalty was unmatched, her love always given lavishly. Accepting the finality of her death was difficult and thus Sebastian forced himself to stare at the casket as it was slowly lowered into the ground.

It seemed to take forever.

Sebastian heard a sob, then a loud sniffle. One of the female mourners was crying, most likely his grandmother’s cousin Sarah. She was a self-proclaimed delicate woman who never missed an opportunity to showcase her sensitive nature. He wondered idly if she attended many funerals, since clearly that would be the best venue to demonstrate her frail constitution.

The sobbing grew louder. Though he dismissed it in his mind as pure artifice, the mournful sound struck a chord. Sebastian felt the tightening in his chest increase. A combination of grief, coupled with the need to suppress it, he decided. He scowled, wanting desperately to turn and walk away, but that would be unpardonably rude. He owed it to his grandmother’s memory to act as she would have wished, with dignity and decorum. Two qualities she often lamented he lacked in sufficient quantity.

As he fought to capture and tame his rioting emotions, Sebastian became aware of someone standing very near. Apparently one of the mourners had broken ranks and approached him. Who would dare to be so brave?

Please, dear Lord, let it not be cousin Sarah.

Sebastian inhaled and gritted his teeth. Yet before he could turn and face this unknown individual, he felt the gentle brush of feminine fingertips against his gloved hand, then caught a whiff of fresh lemons. Emma. The tightness twisting in his chest eased.

Dearest Emma. She was such a compassionate girl. He imagined she had spent the entire service with her eyes trained upon him, waiting for the precise moment when he faltered, ever at the ready to come to his aid when he needed her most. Heedless of the proprieties, Sebastian accepted Emma’s comfort, intimately entwining his fingers with hers.

Strange how such a small, dainty hand could instill such strength inside him, letting him know that he was not entirely alone. At least not for the moment.

Cousin Sarah’s lusty sobs abruptly ceased, her sniffles replaced by an indignant gasp. Apparently the scandal of holding a woman’s hand—an unmarried woman, to whom he was not engaged—was enough to shock the sorrow from Sarah’s breast and replace it with horror. Sebastian felt Emma sway slightly and realized she too had heard that gasp of disapproval.

Fearing Emma might pull away, he squeezed her fingers. Without hesitation she returned the gesture. His breathing once again grew steady and he felt a profound sense of relief that Emma was not easily intimidated by the rigid rules of society.

Under the minister’s direction, they recited one final prayer and then it was over. In a daze, Sebastian turned swiftly, facing the group of mourners, his hand still tightly clutching Emma’s.

Thank you all for coming this morning. Though it is more modest to say that the countess would have been humbled by this show of respect and affection, those of us who knew and loved her know the truth of the matter. He halted, swallowing back the lump of grief that had risen up in his throat. Cook has prepared an enormous luncheon. Please, let us all retire to the manor and partake of this hearty fare.

The majority of mourners obediently turned and headed toward the carriages. The family plot where the countess had been laid to rest was in a picturesque spot bordering the estate’s great woods. Though Sebastian would have preferred walking the mile to the manor house, it was unthinkable to expect his older relations to do the same.

Would you like to ride in my coach, Benton? There’s plenty of room.

Sebastian paused, then shook his head at the man who had spoken. Carter Grayson, Marquess of Atwood, was one of only two men on this earth he respected utterly, trusted completely, and genuinely liked. They had attended Eaton and later Oxford together, forging a friendship as boys that had deepened and strengthened as they became men.

They shared similar viewpoints on most matters and enjoyed a vigorous debate when their opinions clashed. Atwood’s marriage last year to Dorothea Ellingham had done little to diminish this male bond, though he was starting to develop what Sebastian regarded as an unhealthy obsession with propriety. Alas, marriage and respectability could do that to even the most hedonistic of men.

The marquess was also Emma’s brother-in-law.

If you’d rather not go with Atwood and Lady Dorothea, you can ride with me, Peter Dawson suggested.

Dawson had also been a classmate and was the only other man Sebastian considered a true friend. Possessing a quiet, cerebral personality, Dawson was the levelheaded, thoughtful balance in the trio of friends, the one who had kept them all from total disgrace. Yet he still knew how to have fun.

My coachman has instructions to return for me after he has delivered my relations safely to the manor’s front door, Sebastian replied. I’ll wait for him.

I’ll wait too, Emma quickly volunteered.

Really, Emma, you should come with us, Lady Dorothea admonished in a soft voice. I’m sure the viscount would appreciate a few minutes of privacy.

Oh, goodness. I hadn’t realized, Emma replied.

Sebastian felt her stiffen and he panicked, thinking she would pull away. I would prefer that Emma stay with me. If you don’t object?

Sebastian looked directly at Lady Dorothea as he spoke, but the question was obviously intended for both her and her husband. Emma might be Dorothea’s younger sister, but it was the marquess who protected her. Still, if Lady Dorothea disapproved, Sebastian knew Emma would be gone in the blink of an eye.

Lady Dorothea took a deep breath as if striving for patience and understanding. She was a kind woman and he knew she cared about him, knew she was sincerely sympathetic over the death of his grandmother. Yet his roguish reputation and scandalous deeds made her leery about leaving her seventeen-year-old sister alone with him in so isolated a location. Smart woman.

Lady Dorothea turned toward her husband. Atwood grimaced, then deliberately glanced down at the hand in which Sebastian held Emma’s. Tightening his grip, Sebastian tucked it closer to his chest. Atwood’s brow rose in a disapproving manner, but he said nothing.

We will see you both shortly? Atwood finally asked.

It was more of a command than a question. Sebastian nodded.

It was quiet after they left. Hand in hand, Sebastian and Emma walked through the small cemetery, passing his ancestors’ well-tended graves.

‘Tis a pretty spot, Emma remarked.

Yes, all things considered. Sebastian gazed into the distance, taking note of the sea of blue wildflowers dotting the landscape, their vibrant color a sharp foil to the rich, green grass. Funny, his grandmother had always had a particular fondness for any shade of blue.

You know, Sebastian, you might feel better if you cried, Emma said. There is no shame in feeling such deep sorrow at your loss. I vow, I sobbed for weeks when my parents died.

You were five years old.

Emma grunted. For the first time that day, Sebastian laughed. He knew she wanted to argue with him, to press her point, but her kind heart would not allow her to challenge him on such a sad day.

He swung their clasped hands up to his face, pressing her gloved knuckles against his cheek. Then he lowered his arm and tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow, making it all proper and correct between them. Well, except for the lack of a chaperone.

Did you know that I saw the countess the day before she died? Emma asked.

Sebastian nodded. She spoke briefly of your visit. It was kind of you to think of her. Not many bothered to call on a sick old woman.

In addition to my visit, I delivered something. Since you haven’t said anything about it, I assume your grandmother didn’t speak of it.

She only told me that you had called.

Emma’s brows knit together with uncertainty. I know she wanted to show it to you, but I imagine she lacked the strength. Emma paused. I brought her your portrait.

You finished it?

Yes. The main portion had been completed for several weeks. I was worried about rushing the finishing touches, but I knew the countess did not have much longer to live. Thankfully, having a shortened deadline did not hinder my work. I believe she was very pleased with the final result, Emma concluded modestly.

Sebastian felt a tug of wistfulness. He was glad that the countess had seen the work finished, yet felt sorry that they had not had the chance to view the portrait together, especially since it had been his grandmother’s idea.

Though she was young, and a female, Emma’s artistic talent had impressed the countess. Without hesitation, and over Sebastian’s protests, his grandmother had commissioned the portrait. But his initial grumbling quickly faded. Emma was not a giggling, spoiled debutante who dabbled with her brushes and colors. She was a serious artist with a phenomenal talent.

Spending time sitting for the painting had given Sebastian a rare gift. A friendship with Emma, his first with a member of the opposite sex. It was something he valued greatly.

Tell me, do I look impossibly handsome in my portrait? he asked.

I am an artist, Sebastian, not a magician.

You are a cheeky brat, he stated emphatically.

Emma tugged insistently on his arm. And you are far too vain. Impossibly handsome, indeed. I painted you as you are, though the countess thought I might have embellished the width of your shoulders and the firmness of your jaw.

Ah, so the women will be impressed?

Yes, they shall be swooning in alarming numbers when they gaze upon the splendor of your male beauty.

Rendered speechless, perhaps?

Struck dumb, Emma insisted.

Alas, that is hardly difficult for many a young lady in society.

Emma’s brow arched the tiniest fraction. ‘Twas far too worldly a gesture for such an innocent young woman. Your opinion of the gentler sex is alarmingly insulting. We are not all a bunch of ninnies.

I can count on one hand the number of women who possess more brains than God gave a goose.

Emma shook her head. Have you ever considered that the reason there are so many foolish, empty-headed young women littered throughout society is because they are deliberately kept ignorant by the men who seek to control them? Protect them, he countered. Rubbish. Emma sighed loudly. You don’t believe that any more than I do.

Sebastian admired the way her chin angled up when she grew perturbed. She was a very pretty girl. A few years of maturity on her face and figure and Emma would become a truly stunning woman.

Though you are loath to acknowledge it, we both know there are females in society who do indeed require male protection, mostly to save them from themselves, he said. I daresay you’ve already met one or two of these types this Season. Trust me, there will be others.

Honestly, Sebastian, you are such an old curmudgeon at times. I don’t understand how you can possibly have such a dashing reputation.

I confess to working rather hard at it. Sebastian smiled. This was just the kind of distracting conversation he needed right now. In a few minutes he would have to face his relatives and then later the reading of the will. Knowing his grandmother, there were bound to be some surprises.

They reached the end of the short row of graves and turned to walk up the next. Sebastian glanced idly to his left, where his eyes set upon a tall, marble headstone. Evangeline Katherine Maria Dodd, fifth Countess of Benton. Mother.

The lightness of the moment vanished. For a fraction of a second Sebastian felt a bolt of fear so intense it nearly knocked him off his feet. Coldness seeped into his chest, spreading rapidly across his skin.

The rhythmic, creaking sound of a swaying rope echoed inside his brain and he shut his eyes tightly trying to keep at bay what was sure to follow. Yet the image materialized. Every inch as horrific as it had been on that fateful afternoon nearly eighteen years ago.

He had been home from school on holiday, happy to once again be at Chaswick Manor. He was happiest of all, however, to be reunited with his mother. It was a secret he kept from even his closest schoolmates, knowing they would tease him mercilessly about how dearly he loved her.

Sebastian’s father had died when he was very young, leaving no lasting memories. Though there were moments when he felt the loss of a father, they never lasted, thanks to his mother.

The countess had been a beautiful woman. She had not remarried, but instead devoted herself to her only child, taking an active interest in everything he did. She had cried copious tears when he left for school, wrote faithfully to him every week, and made it seem like a special holiday whenever he came home.

Yet on this particular visit there was something very different about the viscountess. She was distant and preoccupied, at times quick to anger, at others melting into puddles of tears without cause or provocation. She spared hardly a glance at her son, keeping to her rooms, taking her meals alone, never venturing far from the manor house.

There were no special hugs, no affectionate ruffling of his hair, no twinges of pride in her voice when she spoke to him. His numerous attempts to coax a smile from her lips were unsuccessful. Worried that the reports of his less than perfect behavior and his average grades were the cause of this unwelcome change, Sebastian set out one afternoon to gather the largest bouquet of wildflowers he could find.

It had taken him nearly an hour, but the result was spectacular. Hoping the gesture would lift her spirits and return to her face the smile he so treasured, Sebastian knocked on his mother’s bedchamber door.

There was no answer. He knocked harder and still no response. He should have left, but no, his stubborn nature would not allow him to be so easily defeated. Pushing the door open, he entered the room and beheld a sight that made his blood run cold.

Sebastian shuddered, unable to control his emotions, for in that instant he was once again a twelve-year-old boy, frightened and horrified at his gruesome discovery.

The creaking of the swaying rope was a mesmerizing noise. It had held him motionless as he stared at the incomprehensible sight. A rope had been tied to the sturdy drapery rod positioned across the long bank of windows. Dangling from it was the still, limp body of a woman. His mother.

She was dressed in a silver evening gown. One of her slippers had fallen off and the white silk of her stocking was visible from toe to heel. Her normally neat, coiffured hair was in wild disarray, her long, slender, white neck bruised and stretched where the rope was tightly pressed against it. Her lips were blue and swollen, her eyes wide open and staring sightless into the abyss.

Sebastian had no idea how long he stood there. He might have made a sound, or perhaps he had remained silent. The next clear memory he had of himself was that of sitting with his grandmother in the drawing room, her face taut with sadness and fear as she repeated over and over that he must never speak of this to anyone. No one must ever know that the Viscountess of Benton had taken her own life.

Sebastian?

The sound of Emma’s voice pulled him from the past into the present. He lifted his lashes and met a pair of concerned blue eyes.

I’m fine. He nodded, a weak attempt to convince himself of that untruth, then glanced away to regain his composure. Emma had an artist’s eye, the ability to see right down to a person’s soul. He did not want the darkness inside him to touch her, to taint her in any way.

The silence stretched between them. Sebastian squinted toward the road. Was that the carriage? Yes, he could see it clearly. He practically pulled Emma away from the graveyard, a desperate attempt to escape from his memories.

If only it were so easy.

Emma raised her eyebrows but said nothing until they were alone in the coach.

You seem rather upset, Sebastian. Would it help to talk about it?

He met her concerned eyes. It was tempting, so very tempting to unburden himself. Yet he could not. In his heart he knew that Emma would listen, would sympathize, would not judge. But old habits are hard to break and he had given his word to his grandmother. No one must ever know the truth.

For years he had suffered nightmares, desperate to know what had driven his mother to such a hideous act. Clearly her anguish had been unbearable, beyond desperation. His grandmother had refused to discuss anything pertaining to the death of her daughter-in-law, but when Sebastian reached his twenty-first birthday he confronted his grandmother, refusing to be denied.

It does no good to speak ill of the dead, the countess had insisted.

Sebastian could still feel the rage and hurt that had risen up from deep inside him. God damn it! She was my mother. I think the very least I am owed is an explanation.

Her life was an utter shambles, the countess had finally confessed, because of a man.

A man? What man?

George Collins, the Earl of Hetfield. The sigh the countess expelled had been filled with sadness. She met him earlier that year at a house party. He was very recently widowed and she understood that kind of loss. They grew close very quickly.

How close?

Close enough for her to become pregnant with his child. The countess had blurted that out, seeming to shock herself with the admission. Evangeline was my daughter through marriage, yet I loved her as if she were my own flesh and blood. I was grateful she came to me when she found herself in trouble and the earl refused to answer her letters, refused even to see her. But he saw me.

You went to him?

I did. He tried to tarnish your mother in my eyes, telling me shocking, scandalous lies, but I wouldn’t hear of it. I demanded he do the right thing and marry her. He refused. He was such an odious man, lacking in feeling and honor. I would have pressed the matter more strongly but soon realized she was better off without him.

Apparently not.

The countess’s eyes had welled with tears. I had no notion of how distressed she was, how disgraced she felt. I offered alternatives, suggested we go abroad together so she could have the baby in private. I vowed to find a good home for the child with loving parents to raise it. Perhaps she could even visit them, giving her a chance to form some connection with the child. She told me she would think upon it, yet two days later …

She hung herself. Sebastian remembered how calmly he had spoken those words, saying them aloud for the first time.

I blame myself for not doing more to help her, to comfort her, the countess had said, weeping softly.

I blame Hetfield. He murdered my mother as assuredly as if he placed the noose around her neck with his own hands. For that he must be made to pay.

Sebastian, no. The countess had risen from her chair. Her voice rasping and slow, she fought back tears. You must put those thoughts out of your mind this instant. I beg of you, for my sake. I too clamor for revenge, but it will be a hollow victory indeed if you are injured or worse. You must promise me that you will leave it alone. Promise me.

Grandmother—

Promise me! Give me your word that you will stay away from the earl.

I promise.

Even all these years later Sebastian could still recall how flat his voice was as he had made that vow, could easily remember how hollow he had felt inside. He had given his word, and though it had been difficult and painful, he had kept it these many years.

But now his grandmother was dead and as far as he was concerned the promise she extracted from him was also gone, buried along with her in the cold, dark ground. Perhaps the only good thing to come of her passing was the freedom to pursue a course of action that would bring him peace and put to rest the event that defined his childhood, that shaped his adulthood.

At long last, Sebastian was going to take his fitting revenge against George Collins, the Earl of Hetfield.

Chapter 2

It looks as if the worst of the rain will hold off until morning, Bianca Collins declared as she stared out the drawing room window. Do you think Papa will arrive today, Eleanor?

Eleanor drew her attention away from the sewing she held in her lap, raised her head, and smiled fondly at her younger sister. At eighteen years old, Bianca had fully come into her looks. She was breathtakingly beautiful, her features delicate and refined, her skin flawless and creamy white. Her hair was long and lush, the color of burnt autumn leaves, her eyes clear and sparkling and as green as the meadow grass in summer.